Song

The mute grey fields, and leafless bowers Now vainly wait the vernal hours; Yet vernal hours to them will come, Awake the song, and ope the bloom.

To me more dear than vernal hours To mute grey fields and leafless bowers, Were Damon’s accents, Damon’s strain, But Damon speaks, nor sings again!

On him hath closed the silent door Shall never, never open more, And on my heart, by nought consoled, The trembling hand of Hope is cold! And bleak fields suit, and suits this iron sky The lonely spirit of departed joy.